.
His first choice had been "The Lily of the Valley," but Balzac had
pre-empted that. And then he had thought of "The Enclosed Garden"
(Hortus Clausus), the title of a lovely picture he had seen. That was
Biblical, but in the present ignorance of the old scriptures it would
be thought either agricultural or sentimental. It is not uncommon that
a book owes its notoriety and sale to its title, and it is not easy to
find a title that will attract attention without being too sensational.
The title chosen was paradoxical, for while a nun might be a puritan, it
was unthinkable that a Puritan should be a nun.

Mr. Brad said he liked it, because it looked well and did not mean
anything; he liked all such titles, the "Pious Pirate," the "Lucid
Lunatic," the "Sympathetic Siren," the "Guileless Girl," and so on.

The announcement of publication had the effect of putting Philip in
high spirits for the Mavick reception-spirits tempered, however, by
the embarrassment natural to a modest man that he would be painfully
conspicuous. This first placarding of one's name is a peculiar and
mixed sensation. The letters seem shamefully naked, and the owner seems
exposed and to have parted with a considerable portion of his innate
privacy. His first fancy is that everybody will see it. But this fancy
only comes once. With experience he comes to doubt if anybody except
himself will see it.

To those most concerned the Mavick reception was the event of a
lifetime. To the town--that is, to a thousand or two persons occupying
in their own eyes an exclusive position it was one of the events of
the season, and, indeed, it was the sensation for a couple of days. The
historian of social life formerly had put upon him the task of painfully
describing all that went to make such an occasion brilliant--the house
itself, the decorations, the notable company, men distinguished in the
State or the Street, women as remarkable for their beauty as for their
courage in its exhibition, the whole world of fashion and of splendid
extravagance upon which the modiste and the tailor could look with as
much pride as the gardener does upon a show of flowers which his genius
has brought to perfection.

The historian has no longer this responsibility. It is transferred to
a kind of trust. A race of skillful artists has arisen, who, in
combination with the caterers, the decorators, and the milliners,
produce a composite piece of literature in which all details are wove